Out of Legend
by Fionavar108
Summary: A seemingly routine case leads Booth and Brennan to an old man with semi-mythical abilities. Probably not everyone's cup of tea, but worth a try I hope. Conservatively rated -- just to be safe, since the plot does center around a serial killer ...


When a human foot breaks two boards, the sound is not a resounding crack

When a human foot breaks two boards, the sound is not a resounding crack. It's more of a muted snap, with a little crunching noise usually drowned out by a forceful exclamation: "Kiyai!"

As Temperance Brennan lightly set her foot down, she automatically froze for a second, then straightened up and bowed toward her karate instructor, Nakamura sensei.

Returning the bow, the karate master looked at Brennan intently. Built like an extremely muscled, stocky fireplug, Nakamura had a hard, grizzled look to his face at most times. Right now, however, a gentle smile—warm, but seeming a little out of place—broke out. "That's very good, Temperance. Your delivery is smoother, and you are learning to focus more of your body's power into your strikes. It's been good to have you in here training more this week."

"Thank you sir," Brennan replied. "I've had a little more time lately – work's been a little slow, so I'm glad you had an opening in your schedule for some training sessions."

"Yes, well. Good. That's it for today, but I know you're generally very busy these days. Call me whenever you think you'll have a free hour or so and we'll see if we can squeeze in another session," Nakamura said. "In the meantime, do some of that stancework at home. That should help you link up all your muscle groups even more efficiently. And that means …."

"More power, more speed, and more balance," finished Brennan.

"Yes," he replied. "Well, see you next time!" he said. And with that, he bowed solemnly, straightened up, and then smiled and waved as he turned to go into his office.

Turning around, Brennan headed in the opposite direction, going into the Spartan locker room to shower and change.

* * *

As she headed toward her car, her cell phone rang. "Booth, what's up?"

"Well, if you have some free time, we have a case," Booth said as he checked his holster, secured his badge, and grabbed his jacket. "It's not really our usual thing, but since things have been slow, I volunteered. You don't have to come, but I thought it'd be good to get out in the field again anyway. What do you say?"

"Sure, why not," she replied, fastening her seat belt. "That journal article can wait. Where?"

Giving her the address, Booth shrugged into his suit coat and stabbed the elevator button for the parking garage. "See you there," he said, flipping his phone shut.

* * *

"Cam? Booth?" Brennan asked as she drove up to the address Booth had given her.

"Hey Temperance," Cam Saroyan said, greeting her while she pulled on a pair of latex gloves. "Ready to go?"

"What's she doing here?" Temperance asked Booth as he put his arm on the small of her back to indicate that they were entering a standard issue industrial warehouse. "No offense," she added as Cam raised a single eyebrow at her bluntness.

"Like I said, Bones, this isn't our usual kind of case – you're not really here because you're a forensic anthropologist, but because you're my partner."

"Well, if this case doesn't require my expertise, then this looks like a matter for the local police. Why are we even here?" she queried.

"Well, there's a little bit of alarm that a murder took place here. Because right on the corner is a witness protection safehouse," Booth explained. "The brass up top just want to make sure this wasn't a hit that got snafu'd."

"Snafu isn't a word, Booth," Brennan said.

"Yeah it is," Booth said. "OK, it's more of an expression, but it's been around so long it might as well be?"

"Really? What's it mean?"

"Situation Normal: All … you know what, the point is, they want to make sure that the guy inside didn't die because a hitman got the address wrong, that's all."

* * *

"Well, that's a bit …" Cam said as she looked down at the body.

"Odd?" said Booth

"Unusual?" Temperance suggested.

"Yes to both of you," the coroner replied.

In front of them was the corpse: He was on his knees, hands by his sides, with a gun in his right hand. A surprised expression was on his face, and a faint smear of blood surrounded his lips; he had apparently died vomiting blood – a small quantity of which puddled on the ground two and a half feet in front of him.

"We clear?" Cam asked the crime scene photographers, and at their nod, she stepped forward to look more closely at the corpse. At a slight touch, the body began to topple forward. A startled Saroyan managed to catch it just in time and lower it to the ground. "Whoa!"

"What? What?" asked Booth.

"The way the body was positioned, I thought rigor mortis had frozen him in place but, now … well, that never made sense, because what -- that would assume that the killer held the body in place until the muscles stiffened. This guy, though – he's still warm, probably died no more than an hour ago … Who found the body?" she asked.

"Anonymous phone tip," Booth said. "And yeah, that's suspicious, but let's leave that for now. If you have what you need here, let's get out of here. I hate warehouses," he said.

"Yeah, I'm done," Cam said. "Temperance?"

"We can go."

* * *

Cam whistled. "Whoever this guy was, he had money. Look at those clothes."

John Doe was dressed conservatively – tailored navy blazer, charcoal slacks, white dress shirt.

"That," she said, turning the lapel over to reveal the inside label, "is Brioni."

"And that shirt," Angela said, looking closely, "is Ascot Chang."

"Nothing you could buy in your average mall," remarked Hodgins.

As they stared at him curiously, he said, "What? I grew up with money. Just because I dress like a lab rat doesn't mean I don't know how to amp it up when I need to!"

"OK, fine. He and Hodgins have the same taste in clothes," interrupted Booth. "But no wallet, no ID, no nothing?"

"Not even a set of house keys," Cam said. "I'm running the prints and dental work through the usual databases, but in the meantime, let's see what else we can learn. Get out of here, you guys. I don't like an audience when I work …"

* * *

Cam knocked on Brennan's office door two hours later. "Temperance? Got a second? I could use your opinion," she said.

Putting down the book she'd been reading, Brennan looked up. "Sure. But bones are more my thing than fresh corpses."

"Doesn't matter. I just want a second opinion and a good knowledge of bones might be helpful," Cam replied. "Come on."

Following her to the table, Bones saw the cut open, organs partially removed for measurements, closer examination, and tissue sample extraction. The victim had been in excellent physical condition – taut, ropy cords of toughened muscle stretched across what had been his torso. Though, Brennan noted, several puckered scars and whitened lines gave evidence to a life that had known violence. In life, Bones noted, his body's condition would have been much like Booth's.

Tracing her gaze, Cam echoed her thoughts. "Yeah, this was a guy who knew how to handle himself. Gunshot scars, healed blade wounds, ligamenture consistent with physical training and conditioning that you don't get in one of those frou frou yuppie gyms and personal trainers … So yeah, the fact that someone took him out this easily is a mystery. But that's not what I wanted to show you. Come look …."

In comparison with the right side, the left side of the body had been only partially taken apart. "Look at the area around the heart," Cam said.

Astonished, Brennan looked first at the outside of the chest area, then back into the cutaway region where Cam had pointed. "No bruising on the chest?"

"None."

"But inside …"

The torso on the outside had looked pristine, but inside, the heart was barely recognizable as such – it looked like it had been extracted from the body, pounded into a pulpy mess, then placed back inside. "It's like a little bomb went off inside his chest," marveled Brennan. "Uh, that's not what happened, is it?"

"Look at the ribs and the spine," instructed Cam, waving off Brennan's previously question. "Have you seen this before? Do you know what could have done this?"

Peering closely with her magnification goggles, Brennan frowned. "There are stress fractures on these ribs. But on the inside? I've never seen anything like this before. When you get done here," she said, straightening up, "I think I'd like to spend some alone time with these bones."

"Thought you might. I know how you love a puzzle," smiled Cam grimly. "Thanks."

* * *

But Brennan could come up with no explanation for the nature of the victim's injuries, and Booth reported that there had been no fingerprint match from any federal database. No dental match, no DNA match. No witnesses they could find, no other forensic evidence they could leverage.

Then, the next day, Booth showed up just before lunchtime with a big grin on his face. "We got it! We have a name and an address. At least we think we do," he said, scanning himself into the lab. "And it's all thanks to this little beauty," he said, holding up a plastic evidence bag.

"His watch?" asked Brennan, looking inside.

"Not just a watch, Bones. A Rolex. A Rolex Sea Dweller, to be exact."

"So he had an expensive watch, Booth. We knew he had money already. You know how many watches Rolex sells? And how many must be in a city like D.C.?" Bones said.

"Ah hah. But Rolex is a little different: they do all their own servicing and maintenance, and they keep very very precise records. And this watch is a model from the early 80s. This watch would have been sent back to Switzerland for an overhaul at least once or twice since he bought it.

"Therefore, I took this to a Rolex dealer here, who opened it up, sent the serial number to Switzerland, and they're going to tell us when it was last serviced, where they sent it when they were done, and who the owner of record was the last time this baby was opened up," Booth explained. "Food?" he said, rubbing his tummy. "Come on Bones, I'm buying."

* * *

The sound of their arguing preceded them as they returned to the Jeffersonian after lunch. "I don't understand, Bones. You're into this martial arts stuff. How can you not like Jackie Chan?"

"I didn't say I didn't like him. I've never met him, so I have no opinion of him, though I have no reason to doubt that he's a very nice person," Bones could be heard responding.

"You know what I mean," Booth said exasperatedly.

"I just don't like his movies. I admit he's highly skilled and well trained, but I find his insistence on doing his own stunts to be reckless, especially when he could get the same effect so easily with some CGI."

"But that's the point! His movies are exciting because you know it's not a special effect – he's really doing what he seems to be doing!"

"So you enjoy having someone expose himself to mortal danger for your entertainment?"

"No! I mean, when you put it that way, no! His movies are just cool, and nobody's forcing him to do these things. There's just an authenticity to his performance!" insisted Booth.

"There's a stupidity to his movies, is …" Brennan retorted until she was interrupted by the sound of a cell phone.

"Mine," Booth said, flipping his phone open. "Booth. Yes. Yes. I see. And you'll e-mail that information to me? Excellent, great, thanks very much, Mr. Muller, you've been a big help.

"That was the Rolex store. The owner of that watch, as best as they can tell, is one Joseph Sully – huh, he doesn't look Irish, what with that olive skin – and he sent the watch in for servicing just six months ago. Address, 3259 Connecticut Avenue SW … wait a minute," he said, his face darkening with anger.

"What? What?" Bones asked.

"Come on. First we're going to visit the residence of the late Mr. Sully, and then," he snarled, stalking toward the door, "Then we're going to find out why the U.S. Marshall's service has been lying to us. That address? That's the safehouse down the street from where we found the body."

* * *

Arriving at 3259 Connecticut Avenue SW, the two were both startled by what they saw. Brennan was surprised that there was no indication of some sort of police presence – the house looked undisturbed. Booth was more intrigued by things that were less obvious.

Booth let out a low whistle. "Bones, you and Cam said this Mr. Sully looked like he'd been in some sort of violent profession in his life, right?

"Yes. Scars resulting from healed assault wounds, musculature consistent with professional fighters and soldiers, that sort of thing. Why?" she asked.

"It's looking like Mr. Sully was a very security conscious kind of guy. One who knew how to survive without making it look like he was trying to survive," Booth said, walking up to the house and scrutinizing the details.

"What do you mean?" Temperance asked, following after him.

"The best security – whether we're talking about a consulate, a bank, or a home – is layered," Booth explained. "Like an onion.

"Any one security feature can be defeated, no matter how strong or secure you think it is. For instance, a really strong bank vault door can be blown."

"So good security is designed to inconvenience someone. With enough layers, it slows an attack down long enough for escape or reinforcements to arrive. That's how old castles were built, right? A broad field surrounds the castle – so anyone trying to approach is vulnerable to catapults Then there's a giant moat. And then strong doors, another huge courtyard, then a climb up to the main rooms, etc. It's possible to beat all these things – but can you do it fast enough to prevent escape or reinforcements?"

Temperance nodded at Booth. "Makes sense," she said.

"Look here," Booth said. "It starts with this fence. Looks like a normal picket fence—but the bolts are electromagnetically activated, and the fence is a bit higher than most and covered with prickly vines to discourage people from climbing over.

The whole house is also surrounded with wild thorny rosebushes," Booth said. "The lawn is immaculate, but the bushes are unkempt. Why? Not because he ran out of money to pay the landscaper – to make it difficult to approach the windows."

"This door: three locks, and unlike most, the guy wasn't lazy—they require three distinct keys. Most front doors actually all use the same key. What's the point? A guy who can pick one can easily pick two more just like it."

"And the list goes on. Bulletproof windows, remote video cameras, the works. Come on, Bones," he said, turning to go. "We're not getting into this house without some expert help."

"Actually, I can help with that," they heard a rough, Australian-accented voice say.

Looking up, Booth and Brennan saw the owner of the voice: a tall, blonde woman – sleekly dressed in black, a pair of quirky, but obviously expensive, sunglasses flanked with two black suited men who, though not particularly muscular or large, clearly looked like they could be very violent and dangerous.

Drawing his badge, Booth said, "Agent Seeley Booth, FBI. This is my partner …"

"Dr. Temperance Brennan," interrupted the woman. "I know who you are, Agent Booth."

"Well, we don't know who you are," Brennan said bluntly. "Let's see some ID."

"I'm afraid not, Dr. Brennan. Or can I call you Bones?" she said, revealing a somewhat more personal knowledge of the two of them than could be found in official records.

"Believe me, it's best that you don't know. In fact, it's really best that after I leave you if you forget you saw me," she added—a hint of sadness in her voice. Removing her sunglasses, she leveled a knowing, but haunted look in her eyes. "Come inside and we'll talk. Walter?" she said into the air.

And with that, the front door swung open silently.

* * *

Inside the foyer, the woman turned. "Before I leave you to go exploring, let's sit down. My name … you can call me Nicole for now," she said.

"You were never meant to solve this case, either of you. That was a nice catch, looking up the records on his Rolex, Agent Booth," Nicole said. "We were sloppy with that."

Narrowing his eyes, Booth said, "Who are you? CIA? NSA? Homeland Security? You can tell me. I'm pretty sure I have the security clearance."

Ignoring his question, Nicole said, "I know what your clearance level is. And no, you don't. I'm disobeying my own rules right now because I respect your work, Booth. And not just your work with Dr. Brennan or with the FBI. I know about Operation Fire Purge. And Operation Thorne. And all the other operations you took part in as a Ranger.

Putting up a finger to silence Booth's response, she said, "I know because I was watching. I was there, personally. I was impressed that you were able to execute the missions, but even more because I saw how you died inside every time you did."

Looking at him sadly, she said, "I was going to offer you a job in my organization, actually. We could have used your skills. But I … liked … you too much and wanted to spare you. You're welcome, by the way.

"Anyway, the man you know as John Sully. You're going to discover that he was very, very nasty man. I kept him alive, because he helped us save countless lives, including yours, Dr. Brennan.

"What do you mean?" Brennan demanded.

"Nine months ago, terrorists decided another attack on America's greatest institutions was due. Among others, they planned super-concentrated ricin attacks at the Smithsonian, the Lincoln Memorial, and the Jeffersonian Institute. Through him, we were able to stop it.

"His information allowed us to save lives. But still: the fact that he has been killed? Well, I know how and who and why. And I consider it justice served. I wasn't able to carry it out. But I won't be shedding any tears," she said.

"We saved thousands of lives. But now that you can explore this house, you'll learn what the cost was. And you'll understand, Agent Booth, why I think you should thank me for not having you join us. I have a lot to answer for.

Standing up, Nicole said, "I'm going to leave you now, Agent Booth, Dr. Brennan. You won't see me again." Walking to the door, "I just know you two hate not being able to solve a case, so I wanted to give you some closure. Consider this a token of appreciation: You're doing good work. I envy you.

"Oh. And if I were you and I figured out who killed John Sully? I wouldn't try to arrest him."

And with that, she was gone.

* * *

Booth and Brennan sat in stunned silence for a few minutes before Temperance said, "You should have arrested her."

With him looking at her silently, she continued, "She knew everything. She had clearly had us under illegal surveillance. She's broken how many laws, and now she's interfering in a federal investigation!"

"Somehow, Bones, looking at the way she operates, I don't think we ever had a chance of arresting her. I've dealt enough with black ops types to know. She's way above our league. Come on, we might as well see what we're supposed to see."

Three hours later, Booth and Brennan were very frustrated, and very empty handed. "Maybe she was playing a sick joke on you," she said.

"No, she wouldn't do that," he said.

"Because she's a gorgeous blonde with insanely long legs?" snipped Brennan. "Who knew when you meant your gut, you meant something a little lower?"

"Ha ha, Bones. If I didn't know better I'd think you were jealous. And anyway, it's not her. I just get the feeling that we haven't gone through the entire house."

"We've gone through every room!" protested Temperance. "We went through inch by inch."

"Actually …" Booth said. "That's what it is. The upstairs is too small! I'm slipping. There is a hidden room upstairs – this house is basically one big box. So why is the upstairs so much smaller than the downstairs?"

Finding the room had proven to be simple once they knew to look for it – a latch switch disguised as a power outlet.

What they found had them both running outside for air. "All those little girls," gasped Brennan. "What he did to them … the pain they must have suffered … it must have taken months for them to die … Booth?"

Her partner was busy pounding the wooden walls of the house with his fists, white hot fury radiating from every pore. "They knew. They knew what he was, and they let him get away with it because they needed what he knew. They knew!" he growled.

"I think she knows that she has a lot to answer for, Booth. And I think now that it's clear that someone related to one of those little girls tracked down Mr. Sully. Still, knowing a bit more about his background, that somebody was probably not to be trifled with either.

"You know what comes next, don't you?"

* * *

What came next for the rest of the month, was identifying each little girl through the photographic evidence, then going through Sully's fortunately meticulous records—if fortunate was the right word—and then, heartwrenchingly notifying their families. Booth lost track of the times he lied through his teeth when parents asked, "Did she suffer?" They had both taken to sleeping over at each others' places to keep the nightmares at bay.

It was in the midst of one such identification that they found their killer.

Lilly Guo had been a sweet, smiling little four year old who had loved french fries, chess, and classical music—as well as Justin Timerlake. And when her grandfather answered the door, Temperance froze for a second, unnoticed by Booth, as he introduced the two of them and walked into the house at the old man's gesture of invitation.

"Mr. Guo," Booth began.

"Please, call me Yun," the skinny old man said. "Is this about Lily? Have you found her?"

"Guo sifu," Brennan interrupted. "Yun isn't your full name, is it?"

"What? Excuse a second, Mr. Guo, I mean, Yun, sir," Booth said, pulling Brennan aside. "Bones, we had a deal, remember? You let me handle this kind of stuff?"

Pushing Booth aside, she said, "It's really Guo Yunshen sifu, isn't it?"

Guo, who had until moments ago had seemed to Booth to be nothing more than an aging gentleman of Asian descent, did not move. But suddenly, his presence filled the room and a spark lit his eyes, and in a firm, clear voice, said, "You know who I am."

"I do," Temperance said. "And because I know who you are, I now know exactly how Mr. John Sully died. You already know what happened to your granddaughter."

Guo gazed at her silently. Calmly, rationally, he asked rhetorically, "You know what this man did."

"Yes."

"Then you know why I took … the actions that I did."

"Yes," Brennan said, nodding sadly. "I have the utmost respect for you, Guo sifu, and I believe justice was served. But I'm afraid Agent Booth and I will now have to ask you to come with us. You understand why we have to arrest you."

If Guo understood, Booth thought, then that made the FBI agent the only one in the room who didn't. But he had worked with Bones long enough to follow her lead. If she said they were going to arrest this old man, who couldn't possibly have taken out a known, armed terrorist, then that's what they would do.

Before he could make a move, however, the old man spoke. "I'm afraid there's no point in getting your handcuffs out, Agent Booth. I am an old man, and I have lived a full, full life. Lily had been my only remaining family. Now, with Mr. Sully gone, I'm done. I had intended to die soon anyway." And with that, he looked away, focusing as if looking at a point in the horizon.

As Booth reached forward, exasperated, Brennan grabbed his arm. Eyes glistening with tears, she shook her head. "No," she said. Beside them the old man smiled and closed his eyes.

There was silence for a moment, and then Booth roused himself, shaking his partner's hand free and reaching toward him again. He was again interrupted. "He's probably dead, Booth."

The hand that had been reaching toward the old man to grab his arm paused. Then Booth reached and felt for a pulse, and sure enough, there was none. Astonished, he looked at Brennan, a question in his eyes.

Quietly, Brennan said, "Guo sifu's body will keep, Booth. We can come back later. Right now, we both need a drink, and I'll explain everything to you."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, the two of them were sitting in a private booth in the back of a quiet, nondescript bar. At Brennan's urging they had both passed up their usual beer for something a little stronger – Jack Daniels for him, and a Laphroiag for her. Sensing her need to gather her thoughts, Booth took a sip of his drink and said nothing. After while, she began to speak.

"You know Booth, there's martial arts, and then there's martial arts. That is, there's what passes for martial mastery in this country—the stuff you read in Black Belt magazine … and there's the real thing. We see a lot of guys here who can punch and kick really well. But when you get right down to it, there's nothing particularly amazing about what they do: it's simple physics and training. The first time you see a roundhouse kick, it's pretty amazing. But see it again, and you can understand the technique pretty easily – how it works, how to stop it, how – theoretically, at least – you should execute it.

"Okay," said Booth slowly. "What does …"

"Guo sifu was a master in the true sense of the word. It's hard to find real masters these days, even in Asia, nevermind here. There are simply too many distractions in the modern world for most to maintain the discipline of training eight hours a day, every day, for 10 to 20 years. And that's what it really takes.

"I didn't put everything together until I saw his face and realized that I recognized him. From pictures, of course. Remember how Cam and I were mystified at Sully's injuries? His heart had suffered massive trauma, and so had the inside surface of the ribs immediately in front of his heart—yet, the rest of his body was perfectly healthy."

Booth nodded.

"We were confused because generally, no pathologist, coroner, or bone expert will ever see injuries like that. There maybe five to 10 people alive on this planet who can inflict an injury like that. And Guo was one of them."

"Come on, Bones. That old man?"

"Booth, remember when I held you back when you were about to cuff him?"

"Yeah, that was pretty sentimental of you, letting the old man do … that – which was pretty freaky, by the way."

"That wasn't for his sake, Booth. It was yours. I don't think he would have hurt you, but if he felt he had to, you wouldn't be alive to drink that whiskey."

Booth laughed nervously.

"Seriously, Booth. Guo is a legend among martial arts circles. Don't forget – you've seen what he can do. Barehanded, he killed a highly trained terrorist-mercenary who had his gun drawn. A guy who would have given you trouble, and that's taking into account and giving respect to your training and abilities. Guo took him out with one strike. I suspect he used the one strike that he's known for.

"And you know of him how?" said Booth. "You don't even train a Chinese art. I've met your sensei, remember?"

"It's true. I train karate. But despite the pride most Japanese karate masters hold for their art, Guo's abilities were legendary among those in the know. What I'm about to tell you is pretty fantastic sounding, so you'll have to take my word for it. It might help if you remember that this is an old man who took out … who he took out, and had such control over his body that he willed his own death right in front of your eyes," Temperance said firmly.

"This sounds vaguely like the plot to a bad kung fu movie. I'm going to need another drink, aren't I?"

"Probably," she responded. "Guo Yunshen was a master of a style of Chinese martial arts called Xingyiquan. It's a style that stresses the development of whole body power to an amazing degree of refinement, and then trains the practitioner to release the totality of that power in every strike, every movement. I'm talking about gaining control over every possible muscle and tendon, and linking them all together in perfect alignment. The techniques are very aggressive, very linear and involve a lot of charging in – I think it's based on spear techniques from the ancient days.

"Anyway, one of the techniques in that style is called the 'crushing fist.' It looks like a simultaneous reverse punch combined with an advancing footwork, but on steroids. In his youth, Guo supposedly took part in a full contact challenge match in rural China and accidentally killed a man with this technique. He ended up prison, where they kept him manacled for five years. Ironically, his chains meant that for five years, the only technique he could practice to make the time go quicker was the 'crushing fist.'

"When he left prison, Guo was so powerful, so fast, so skilled at applying this technique, that people started calling him 'Divine Crushing Fist.' He worked for few years guarding caravans from bandits, and within the martial arts community, they began to say, 'The Divine Crushing Fist defeats all under heaven.'

"When World War II began, he joined the Chinese Intelligence service. Nobody's sure what he did there, but it was enough that, despite having been a Nationalist, when the Communists took over, they respected what he had achieved so much that—so the story goes—instead of having him executed, Mao Tse Tung himself accompanied him to the harbor when it became clear that he couldn't convince him to stay."

"Bones, you're telling me that guy – the guy we just met – fought in World War II? I know he was old, but that would make him …"

"In excess of 95 years old. Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying. Actually, he's probably well over 100."

"Anyway, unlike a lot of other Nationalists, who fled to Taiwan, Guo went to Tokyo. He had a reputation over there, and it's said that for quite a few years, he was the bodyguard to the top Yakuza bosses – organized crime. If it's true, it says something about how much respect they had for Guo – the Yakuza are notoriously ethnocentric and racist; if they went to Guo, it's because he wasn't just the best – he was the best by a wide margin over anyone else in the country.

"My sensei, Nakamura sensei, once showed me pictures of his teacher with Sifu Guo. Nakamura is no slouch, as you know, but nothing made him humbler than thinking about what Guo could do. Most of what I've told you is based on stories he told me," Brennan noted.

"Until today, I just thought that sensei was telling tall tales about the previous generation. That's not uncommon within the martial arts.

"A lot of people can demolish a pile of bricks or concrete slabs with their hands. It's not that hard, if you're willing to risk nerve damage. But supposedly, some people have mastered their power so completely it's called 'internal power.' They can strike a slab of bricks and break only the one that they choose – the top one, the bottom one, any brick in the middle. Supposedly, a master with that kind of skill can strike you and pulverize your internal organs while leaving the surface musculature and blood vessels unbroken. You die instantly. I never thought it was possible, but …

"But Sully's heart proved otherwise."

Brennan nodded. "The crushing fist technique attacks the body cavity—the chest area. I didn't even know Guo was in the United States. At some point in the 1980s, Guo Yunshen simply disappeared. The Yakuza, the top karate and judo masters in Japan, they all looked, but he had vanished without a trace. Nobody knew where he was—or even if he was still alive. I guess he must have made his way to this country. But given his combat skills—and his experience in intelligence and working for a major criminal organization—he might even have been able to track down someone like Sully."

"And had a daughter and granddaughter?" questioned Booth.

"Think back, Booth. She didn't really look like him, did she? I suspect Lily was a sweet little orphan girl that the old man took pity on and decided to raise as his own. But without a body, we'll never know."

"I know it sounds crazy, Booth. But the old man as much as confirmed my theory. You heard him," said Brennan. "It must've been extremely difficult for him, knowing that despite all his skills, he was unable to save his granddaughter. I didn't know what he was going to do just now. But I can understand why. I'm not sure I would have done any differently if I were him."

* * *

It was several hours before Booth and Brennan left the bar and returned to Guo's home. As they walked slowly up to the door, Booth said, "You know, Bones, I'm not saying I believe you, and I'm not saying that I don't, but one thing's for certain."

"What's that?"

"There is NO WAY we're putting that story in the official report. I'd get laughed out of the Bureau. As far as I'm concerned, this case is going to be left officially unsolved."

* * *

Author's notes.

A dead man's Rolex watch really did provide police with the key to identifying his body and solving his murder. Learn more on the Rolex entry for wikipedia.

The character Nicole is really Nikita. As in the title character in the TV series, La Femme Nikita. Just a cameo appearance. The whole series is now available on DVD, and I highly recommend it – Machiavellian plots and intrigue galore. Hippest secret agents you'll ever see.

Guo Yunshen was a real person. And he really was a master of a style called Xingyiquan (which is as described.) You can learn more on the emptyflower web site. (I can't seem to post URLs here, so you'll have to Google it.)

While the biography of Guo Yunshen is slightly altered (and everything past the story of his term in prison is false), there really is a Chinese xingyi master who became a top bodyguard for the Yakuza. His name is Su Dongchen. (Also spelled Su Dong Chen.) I am not sure of his age, but from Youtube clips, he certainly appears to be relatively young (40s, maybe?) and vigorously. He is currently based in southern California.

The way Guo Yunshen (the fictional version here) died matches multiple apocryphal legends of various Zen masters and samurai, who were said to be at one with the Tao and have such control over their bodies and spirits that they could separate the two and die at will.

The breaking skill described here does exist; I've seen it. However, it is a matter of debate as to how useful this would be in actual combat. Obviously, there would be no ethical way of testing it out.


End file.
